The recent revelations of Greg Mortenson have been gnawing away at me the past few days as I attempt to digest the significance of it all. Like millions more, I found Mortenson’s story inspiring. Before reading Three Cups of Tea, the fate of my own adventures brought me to a remote village in Pakistan’s Karakoram Range where I lived with a family while volunteering at their community school. There are several parallels between my experience and Mortenson’s story, which led me to both revere and criticize the depiction of Three Cups of Tea.
Coincidentally, the village I lived in, known as Misgar, is located in the valley adjacent to Zuudkhan, which plays a pivotal role in Mortenson’s story (particularly in Stones into Schools) as the venue for the promise he makes to build a school for the Kyrgyz nomads of the nearby Wakhan Corridor in Afghanistan. More importantly, it was a non-profit foundation that funded the construction of Misgar’s community school, which was subsequently left to its own devices to source teachers, develop curriculum, and improve student performance. In every regard that directly impacted the quality of education being delivered, Misgar’s school was in dire straits.
After returning home and reading Three Cups of Tea, my primary objection was the relationship that Mortenson claimed to exist between constructing schools and educating thousands of children. When discussing Mortenson’s story with others, it was puzzling to me how few people took issue with this extrapolation, which should have been obvious to any discerning reader.
Regardless of what faults Mortenson’s readers may have identified in him, it was the cult of personality that elevated him to heroism (with myself included). The story of Three Cups of Tea is so extraordinary that, with the benefit of hindsight, it’s not difficult to imagine that elements were embellished. Nor should it come as a surprise that a 35 year-old nurse and climbing bum would become a dysfunctional executive.
What’s most devastating about Mortenson’s apparent demise is the implication of intent. That he pathologically misled his supporters is far more egregious than had he done wrong while meaning to do well. The projection of Mortenson’s character, which he worked so hard to craft in his books, has been irreparably damaged.
Mortenson was supposed to be the real deal – a man of genuine motivations who had made great sacrifices for the noble cause of education. To know that he existed was uplifting, and to now discover that he is a fraud is crushing. Did Mortenson become corrupted along the way by the temptation of selling his story to the world? Or did Mortenson, out of desperation from the very beginning, do what he had to do to make a living? We’ll probably never know, not that it really matters.
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Coincidentally, the village I lived in, known as Misgar, is located in the valley adjacent to Zuudkhan, which plays a pivotal role in Mortenson’s story (particularly in Stones into Schools) as the venue for the promise he makes to build a school for the Kyrgyz nomads of the nearby Wakhan Corridor in Afghanistan. More importantly, it was a non-profit foundation that funded the construction of Misgar’s community school, which was subsequently left to its own devices to source teachers, develop curriculum, and improve student performance. In every regard that directly impacted the quality of education being delivered, Misgar’s school was in dire straits.
After returning home and reading Three Cups of Tea, my primary objection was the relationship that Mortenson claimed to exist between constructing schools and educating thousands of children. When discussing Mortenson’s story with others, it was puzzling to me how few people took issue with this extrapolation, which should have been obvious to any discerning reader.
Regardless of what faults Mortenson’s readers may have identified in him, it was the cult of personality that elevated him to heroism (with myself included). The story of Three Cups of Tea is so extraordinary that, with the benefit of hindsight, it’s not difficult to imagine that elements were embellished. Nor should it come as a surprise that a 35 year-old nurse and climbing bum would become a dysfunctional executive.
What’s most devastating about Mortenson’s apparent demise is the implication of intent. That he pathologically misled his supporters is far more egregious than had he done wrong while meaning to do well. The projection of Mortenson’s character, which he worked so hard to craft in his books, has been irreparably damaged.
Mortenson was supposed to be the real deal – a man of genuine motivations who had made great sacrifices for the noble cause of education. To know that he existed was uplifting, and to now discover that he is a fraud is crushing. Did Mortenson become corrupted along the way by the temptation of selling his story to the world? Or did Mortenson, out of desperation from the very beginning, do what he had to do to make a living? We’ll probably never know, not that it really matters.
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